


animus to amor

by ezziesworld (orphan_account)



Series: The Depraved Adventures of Joker and You [5]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Angst, Biting, Breathplay, Choking, Daddy Kink, Edgeplay, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hate Sex, J is an asshole but we love him, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, dark themes, mental fuckery, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:20:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23929822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ezziesworld
Summary: You ride J's thigh, but it's never that simple, is it?
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s), Joker (DCU)/Reader, Joker (DCU)/You
Series: The Depraved Adventures of Joker and You [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696144
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “Often it is the most deserving people who cannot help loving those who destroy them.” - Hermann Hesse

He had coaxed you close and promptly ordered you to strip before him as he lounged on the beat up love-seat pushed against the worn walls of the apartment. You did so with an excited tremor in your hands, which you had willed to subside as his blackened gaze followed your every movement. Despite the lofty expression on his face (looking rather collected despite the tell-tale strain in his slacks) you could tell the man was excited in his own right. It was an acquired skill, reading him, but one you had near mastered; his fingers drummed against his thigh, his tongue flicked out repeatedly against his lower lip and, _this was the most obvious aside from his erection_ , he shifted in his seat and spread his long legs with a barely there bounce of his left knee. Anticipation showed itself in many forms, and with him, it showed with his minuscule ticks. 

With a small tug of his lips, he motioned you to his lap. You quickly threw your leg over his waist, and he smacked your ass and _tsked_ you. Stunned, you drew back and looked at him warily, suddenly unsure of what he wanted. 

_“No, no no._ ” He chided, “Right _here_.” J smoothed a palm over his thigh, the tug of his lips had gradually stretched to a full grin, monstrous yellow teeth gleaming in the dimmed light of the apartment. You were hesitant (not wanting to ruin his pants with how wet you were in that moment), but the way J narrowed his gaze at you spurred you on. No words needed, you could almost hear him impatiently say _‘let’s go, doll’._ You swallowed thickly, stretched your hands out and timidly found purchase on the broadness of his shoulders as you did what was told.

He had this way of keeping control, despite the way you loomed above him–it was mental dominance, his hold on you was seared into your very being. You realized, as you slowly brought yourself down on his thigh, that you could hold a knife to his throat and he would still control every movement you made. It burned in his gaze, where his pupils were dilated to the point they looked more like endless pits of black rather than eyes; _you had no control here._

The fabric was coarse between your thighs, a sharp juxtaposition to the slick heat of your cunt. You could feel the way your arousal seeped into his slacks, dampened it as you brought your full weight down. J reached a hand out, cuffing your jaw with his large palm, leather warm against your skin. His left found your waist, absently stroking along your hipbone with his thumb. You shuddered a breath, and rocked your hips against him unconsciously, your body ten steps ahead of your mind and searching for friction.

He tightened his hand on you, digging his thumb into the hard bone of your hip with a low hum. You knew the sound all too well–it was dissatisfied, holding a clear edge of annoyance. You stopped moving, but there was no refraining the whine that slipped from your lips. 

“Why don’t you ah, _use your words_ , doll?” He coaxed, dropping his hand from your face to mirror his hold on your other hip, tethering you in place. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to, your fingers curling into the fabric of his plum trench as you glanced down at him. Your skin felt too hot, itching with need, feeling so incredibly vulnerable as you hovered above him completely naked and indigent. The Joker grinned then, it didn’t reach his eyes, those burned continuously with a sadistic ardor–he thoroughly enjoyed this, breaking you down, observing the desperation that gradually welled in your hooded gaze–before he flexed the hard muscle of his thigh. You gasped, your hips jerked against his hold where had since begun pulling you down, pressing you into the the firm and coarse surface of fabric and solid flesh. 

“Please. Please l-let me move.” Heat crawled up your chest, a brilliant hue of pink that warmed you to the bone as you held your gaze with his. He clicked his tongue, unimpressed. 

“You can do better than _that–I know you can.”_ An encouraging cadence in his words made you blush further; he wanted you dissolute, he wanted you debauched and _lecherous–y_ ou were eager to please. 

“Please, _daddy_ –I wanna fuck myself against your leg–” He quirked his head in intrigue, a clear gesture to continue down your current path, and you took it and ran. “I-I’ll be your good girl, _I will._ Please, let me cum–I want to cum so bad, _please daddy.”_

“Look at you, sweethear _t_. Who knew you were so… _dirty_.” He jeered, flicking his tongue out across his lip with a scrutinizing narrowing of his gaze. “Good girls don’t talk like _that, do they?”_

Stunned, once more unsure of yourself, you opened your mouth to speak. A moan rushed past your lips in favor of a stuttering response as he slowly, firmly pulled your hips forward, grinding your throbbing cunt against his thigh. It wasn’t particularly delightful, the coarse fabric chafing unpleasantly but beneath the burn there was a minuscule ounce of sinful friction. Your moan warbled into a whine when he stopped, your eyes screwed shut with a frustration that you would never voice. Regardless of his torture, you found yourself impossibly wet, aroused to the point you were quivering above him, curling your toes into the floor. 

“Good girls don’t _lie_ , either. _So_ –” He began again, keeping his gaze on your face as he languidly pushed you back, grinding you agonizingly slow against his thigh. “Tell me the _truth._ You’re not a _good_ girl. You are a…” He tapered off, leaving the answer to you, and you quickly replied, 

“A _bad_ girl! I’m a bad girl–p- _please_ , daddy!” 

“That’s _right_ , doll.” He affirmed, his tone saccharine. You opened your eyes to see his expression matched that of his voice, twisted with a wicked grin that held a callous type of elation only _he_ could ever display. You’d learn to appreciate it; malicious as it was, it was his special strain of happiness that thrived on your misery. You were more than happy to give him. 

“And _bad girls_ –well, _bad girls get punished_.” His sickly sweet cadence dipped mid sentence into a low growl, a wild shiver shot up your spine as he tightened his hold on your waist, dug his fingertips into the plush flesh until it ached. You felt as though there was no right answer to his questions, no proper way to win the disconcerting mental games he always liked playing, and you knew he did it on purpose. _Mental dominance;_ the hold he had on your conscious was tighter than the burrowing grip of his hands on your hips, dragging you forward and back so excruciatingly slow it felt as though you were gradually losing your sanity with each passing. 

You dropped forward, pressed your head into the hardness of his shoulder and whined so pitifully even _you_ were agitated by the sound of it; it was times like this you wanted to _hate_ him. Hate the torture he inflicted on your body and mind despite ever being provoked–perhaps just being _willing_ was provoking enough, being desperate and lusting after a mad man was all the reason he needed. You could hate him all you wanted, but that didn’t slake the burning arousal that raged in your being. So you acquiesced, curled your fingers into his trench and began begging, breathing hot against his neck. 

“Please, _please_ daddy. Please let me move, _let me cum._ ” 

The Joker shifted beneath you, his hand slipped deftly from your hip and for a brief, fleeting moment you thought he might give you clemency. He laid his palm against the back of your head, stroked your hair back twice and you tentatively rolled your hips, ground yourself against his thigh and moaned at the relief it brought. It was cut short with an abrupt tug of your hair, a handful held tight in his grasp until you were forced to follow the movement, sitting straight once more. He kept pulling until your neck was forced into an arch, you stared at the ceiling through your hazed vision as he leaned forward and grazed his teeth along the hard line of your clavicle, coaxing a shuddering whine from your throat. 

“You _are_ a bad, lying, greedy. _…dirty girl.”_ He breathed out slowly, and you felt as though your heart would burst right through the cage of your sternum. The curve of his lips was felt against your sweat slicked skin. You closed your eyes and braced yourself, waited with bated breath as his mouth ghosted up to the junction of your neck and shoulder. He nuzzled his face affectionately into your neck, before calmly sinking his teeth into your flesh. It wasn’t quick or sharp like he tended to be, but decisive, _controlled_ –and somehow that was worse. You could feel every edge of every tooth slowly dig into your skin until it burned, the brutal hold he held on your hair a long forgotten agony that faded into the background, muffled with this new pain– _punishment. The thought whisked through your head quicker than you could catch it_ –and then he was piercing the skin, drawing pearls of crimson to the surface with a low, deep in his chest groan that sounded near inhuman. 

Your fingers had burrowed hard into his trench, no doubt leaving bruises through the multitude of layers as you let out a pained cry through your grit teeth. It was agony, white hot pain that radiated from a single point, steadily flowed through every single nerve in your body and somehow, _somehow_ you found yourself pushing against him, grinding yourself down onto him despite the bruising hold of his hand still grappling your hip. It were as though he was counting on it, on your unhindered moment of desperation to mix just an an _ounce_ of pleasure with the crippling pain of his ministrations. The Joker released your hair, grabbed hold of your hips and pushed and pulled you himself, sinking his teeth in further as though he were a viscous predator delivering the final bite to it’s hapless prey. It did something to you; snapped your last remaining bit of resolve and you quickly pried your fingers from his shoulders, dragged them through the tangled mop of faded green hair atop his head and _pulled_. 

He groaned against your skin, loosened his bite and bucked his waist against nothing, nearly toppling you off him entirely. You exhaled shakily at the loss of pain, having quickly grown accustomed to the dull ache and feeling an odd flourish of tingles in it’s absence. He followed the tug of your hands, tilting his head back and looking at you beneath half-mast lids, the whites of his eyes near indistinguishable in the surrounding black of greasepaint and dilated pupils. Then, much to your surprise, he smiled. His lip was streaked with fresh blood, the yellow of his teeth mottled with crimson, and you were grinding against him furiously now, ignoring the chafe of his pants which had since soaked through with your arousal. He dragged his tongue across his split lower lip, no doubt tasting copper, before he spoke tauntingly. 

“ _Look at that_ —you’ve got some _bite_ in you after all.” 

You were still pulling his hair, and he was still guiding your hips, and he was looking at you with some type of wicked endearment that you couldn’t seem to care about; it held promise of pain, but the only thing on your mind was the electrifying sensation of his thigh between your legs, the delirious mitigation of your throbbing clit against hard muscle, sending jolts up your spine, through your legs–you moaned in response, breathy and overcome with relief. 

You were _close_ , so close you could taste the moan that readied behind your lips, feel the swelling pressure that coiled inside your stomach like a spring pushed down and seconds away from bursting, and then he tightened his hold once more, halting your erratic movements with a force like that of a steel vise. All at once that sensation dropped, and you came down from your almost-high with a desperate cry and a frustrated tug of his hair. You were trembling above him, shaking with a wild concoction of fury and complete despair. 

“J, please! _Please_ , let me come–I need to–”

“You _need_ to?” He goaded, and then he began once more with the torturous forward and backwards guidance of your waist. You were clenching your jaw tight, fighting back whatever piteous cries that threatened to break past the barrier of your teeth in what you could only surmise as The Joker’s goal; to hear you _whine_ , and _beg_ , and _cry_ for a relief that only he could give you. It was your own attempt at rebellion, at defiance. You took it a step further, dropping your attention down to his gaze, watching you raptly, before closing the small distance between your faces and kissing him. He reacted on contact, opening his mouth and pushing his tongue past your lips to deliver the acrid bite of your own blood, lingering in his mouth and giving him a distinct taste of metal.

You were the closest to hating him that you’d ever gotten. But more so, you think you hated _yourself_ –because who in their right mind would want something like _this?_ Who in their right mind would kiss a man with their blood on his tongue, and find that they loved the way it mingled with his own distinct flavor, loved that it was _their_ blood, their pain that made him the way he was? You gave your own growl, light and feminine in comparison to the guttural bellow that vibrated in his chest, and you took his lower lip between your teeth and bit hard, splitting the already mangled flesh and flooding your mouths with a fresh burst of that metallic piquancy. 

He groaned, long and drawn out as he dug his fingers further into your hips, but he didn’t stop your movements, just followed them, pushed you to and fro like a crutch should your legs give out or your sudden act of sedition fizzle to compliance once more. He was spurring you on, and you hadn’t the mind to be bewildered at what it took, only a semblance of coherency to chase the divine feeling of his leg between your thighs, to keep the erratic pace of your hips, to savor the feeling of your clit thrumming with each forward and backwards glide. You were gripping his hair tight, pulling him in all directions as your hold on his lower lip grew savage, until a sharp moan burst from your lips and you finally let go. You were riding that fine line between euphoria and agony once more, and somewhere deep in your subconscious you braced yourself for The Joker’s inevitable interception, but it didn’t come–rather he reached up and grabbed your chin, forcing your head to a downward angle. 

“Look at me.” He growled, and you did, but his visage was obscured with your haze, looking more like a fever-dream monster than the man you blindly loved. He knew that, because he grinned wide, his scars bunching up and his teeth gleaming like the maw of a demented demon in the guise of a macabre clown. “You’re a bad girl not just because you’re needy, lying, or _dirty–_ but because you _love_ it when I _hurt_ you.”He stated, matter-a-fact. 

He drew his fingers upwards, pressing them into the hollows of your cheeks and snarled, “Isn’t that right?” before forcing a nod to your head. You followed the movement and whined, gripped his hair tighter and breathed out, 

“Yes daddy.” 

He hummed, contemplating for a moment that felt like an eternity, before he pulled you down and pressed his mouth against yours, gracing you with a kiss that felt too chaste in comparison. 

“Go ahead, babygirl– _you can come._ ” It was just above a whisper, but his voice was rough around the edges, coming out more as a low rasp than anything. But it was sweet, relenting, and you felt mentally whip-lashed but you took it for what it was regardless; permission. He dropped his mouth from yours and kissed the bruised flesh of your neck, traced his tongue over the indents his teeth had left behind. His hand smoothed down your torso, firmly grasping your breast and flicking your nipple with his thumb, sending a spark down to your throbbing heat. 

You moved unabashed; rolling your hips against his now wet thigh and pushing down, your mouth dropped open but no words came to the surface. It was right there, it was brushing your nerves and you chased it down with shameless desperation. He flexed his thigh again, plaint flesh becoming stone between your legs and you keened, arched your back and tugged his face absently into the crook of your neck and shoulder. You were overcome with it; a relief so debilitating you could only give a strangled cry through your grit teeth, grinding your cunt against him until it physically hurt, wishing you could take that modicum of utter ecstasy that flooded you and keep it _forever_. 

All at once you loosened, dropped your head onto his shoulder and curled into him with a soft, wavering moan. He let you do it, and you think you felt him kiss your neck with a feather light touch before pulling back and resting his chin atop your head. His hand began stroking your back, long up and down movements that placated whatever enmity you felt for him before. 

You knew what he was doing–you’d been conditioned to it. He’d drive you to your pinnacle, fill you with a resentment that burned in your chest, and he’ll palliate that hate with empty promises and gentle touches, ease you into a sense of comfort. You always went willingly, curled up next to him in the aftermath and cherishing those rare moments of affection because he was the only thing that could make you feel better–he was the root of your pain, as well as the antidote. 

You would let him break you apart a million times over, let him fill you with _rage_ , play with your mind until you couldn’t decipher the truth from fiction if it meant he would be there in the end, consoling you with that false sense of security he was so good at giving.

You wanted to _hate_ him, you really did, but the way he whispered in your ear, sweet nothings that filled you with a misplaced sense of love, _made it so hard._

So instead, you listened.


	2. Hate me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> counter fic to animus to amor - essentially hate sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate and love. And why, perhaps you’ll ask. I don’t know: but I feel, and I’m tormented.  
> \- Catullus

His voice is low and gravelly, deep grunts that rumble in his chest. I cling to his shoulders, feel the hardness of them, the way his muscles and bones shift beneath the hot warmth of his skin. His head is dropped to my shoulder, where he vehemently bites and marks the tender flesh of my neck and sternum.

I sometimes forget that he is _just a man_ —he doesn’t appear to be, at first glance. He looks more akin to a monster, a demon in the guise of a macabre clown, but beneath all his plum and verdant layers there lies a man that desires the same as any other. He is not gentle in his movements; he thrusts himself between my legs with a vigor that rattles my spine, my teeth grit and I dig my nails into his neck with a sharp moan. 

I’ve learned to love the way he fucks me–rough, hard, _dominating_. He demands control in all aspects of his life, and this is no different. He’s animalistic, feral in his movements, pushing his thick length inside me over and over until I’m aching, throbbing, _and he does not stop._ Sometimes, he kisses me. They taste bitter, the waxy feel of greasepaint is something I’ve associated with lust. This time he wears no makeup, and his lips are bare and soft against my own. He pushes his tongue past my lips, tastes the roof of my mouth and gives a low groan that breathes fire to the very core of me. His hair tickles my face, greasy faded green strands that cast a veil over our mouths, a metaphorical curtain where he and I are the only ones to exist. When he pulls away, his black eyes bore into me, watching the way my face twists with pleasure, with _pain._

He looks like a different man; no makeup, just the bare bloom of mangled flesh, the darkened sockets of his eyes from exhaustion and remnants of black greasepaint. He is beautiful in a tragic way, _a morbid way,_ and I reach out and cup his face between my hands, trace my thumbs over the corded flesh of his scars, and he knits his fair brows and pushes harder, anger and contempt flashing behind his eyes, subdued just barely by pleasure.

_I know he hates me._

_I know he wants me._

I know he wishes I were _dead_ , he wishes he could wrap his hands around my throat and crush my windpipe, rid himself of the only thing in his life that he cares about—the only thing that makes him _weak_. He fucks me harder, the sharp angles of his hipbones bruise the inside of my thighs, his hand wraps around my throat, and he glares at me, panting. He presses his thumb into my trachea, it hurts and I gasp, clench around him and whine. I still hold his face, and he presses harder, fucks me harder, _hates me harder—_

He groans, deep and low in his chest, and I feel him release inside me. He keeps his gaze on me, his brows knit fiercely, his mouth dropped as he bucks against me, pushing me to reach my pinnacle, a lack of oxygen sending me into a blissful torpor where nothing exists but him, _and his hatred._ His torso drops, he holds me in place with his hand on my throat, the feeling of his bare fingers running through my hair, gripping it as he presses his forehead against mine. I can see the sliver of brown in his blackened gaze, I can see the rampant storm of emotions as his eyes flicker between mine, searching for _something_ , something to push him over the edge. 

_He wants to kill me._

_He wants to keep me forever._

He settles on kissing me, firm and messy, our teeth knocking together before he takes my lower lip between his grasp, biting me hard enough that it splits between his teeth and I am flooded with copper and the frustrated growl he pushes down my throat. He’s seething, and I run my hands up and through his hair, wind it around my fists but I don’t pull him away; he does that himself. 

He tears his body from mine, a rush of cold air in his absence racks a shiver down my spine.

He never stays, always leaves me afterwards–sometimes hours, sometimes days, _but he always comes back._


End file.
